


Home Coming

by tiger_in_the_flightdeck



Series: Tiger's Tumblr Ficlets [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry Love Confessions, Angry Sex, Angst, Frottage, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock's return, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_in_the_flightdeck/pseuds/tiger_in_the_flightdeck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never spoke.</p><p>The dreams, the nightmares. The phantom visitors that wore his friend’s face. They would smile, sometimes they would laugh. Once, they had played a violin composition John had never heard before or since. On rare occasions, they would hold his hand, or stroke his hair. They would kiss him, leaving him breathless and sobbing as he clutched at his sheets. They touched him.</p><p>They never spoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Coming

_“Hello, John,”_

That was it. Two little words, and Sherlock had come crashing back into John’s life. Spoken softly from the doorway, as he looked at John, standing in the middle of a chaos of broken crockery and spilled sugar.

Something had drawn John out of his dreams. It was close to midnight, and he had shuffled downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. On his way by, he barely registered the dozing form of Sherlock, curled up under a blanket in his old chair. He saw Sherlock so often, especially after a dream, that it was hardly an uncommon occurrence at this point. So, he had ignored him and set about the ritual of making a cup of tea.

Then he had stood, yawning and shedding the blanket. He scratched his belly, and asked for a cup as well.

They never spoke.

The dreams, the nightmares. The phantom visitors that wore his friend’s face. They would smile, sometimes they would laugh. Once, they had played a violin composition John had never heard before or since. On rare occasions, they would hold his hand, or stroke his hair. They would kiss him, leaving him breathless and sobbing as he clutched at his sheets. They touched him.

They never spoke.

“Hello, John,”

“Sher… Sherlock, is that you?” John picked his way through the mess he had made when he dropped the sugar bowl. “Are you really here, or have I just started to competely fucking lose it?” His fingers shook as the hovered a couple inches from his friend’s face. “You look different.”,

“I’ve had a bad time of things, the past few months.” He explained. His hair was longer, and had a few white threads scattered through it. His cheeks were sunken slightly, and his lips were dry and chapped, bitten red. On either side of his heart-shaped mouth, deep curved lines marked his skin. “Now, how about that c-”

“Fuck you!” John snapped, shoving Sherlock hard in the chest. “You think you’ve had a hard time of things? What about me, you stupid sod?” He shoved him again, forcing him to stagger back a pace. “I watched you kill yourself! You made me! Do you have any idea what that did to me? What I went through the past… Christ, almost two years? I’ve been wallowing here in the knowledge that I wasn’t enough for you. That you would have rather die than live in a world where I was the only one that worshipped the fucking ground you walk on.”

Sherlock rubbed his chest, eyes wide. “John, you don’t understand. I’m home now. Everything can go back-”

He had forgotten how hard John could punch.

“No. I’m sorry, Sherlock, but no. It doesn’t work that way.” Shaking his hand out, John turned and shoved his bare feet into a pair of loafers, and pulled on his jacket.

“John… Where are you going? You can’t leave!”

“Out! I’m going out. I want you gone by the time I get back. I don’t care where you go.” The door slammed behind him, and was soon followed by the front door.

*

“No dates…” John scowled at the image in front of him. He could see Sherlock step up behind him through the reflection in the glossy black stone. “You are such a fucking twat. Was I the only one you didn’t trust?” He brushed a few stray tears from his lashes.

“I trusted you, John.” Sherlock placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “It just wasn’t safe. Only Mycroft and Molly knew. Maybe Mrs Hudson. She’s clever. She probably noticed when things went missing from the flat.” Stepping closer, Sherlock slid his arm around John’s waist.

“Get off of me.” The arm tightened, and pulled him back into an embrace. “I said get off!”

John gripped the arm, twisting it behind Sherlock’s back. Sticking a leg between his, John pushed down into the hollow behind Sherlock’s knee. The detective toppled down, with John riding him to the ground.

“You complete and utter bastard!” John yelled, pinning Sherlock down with a hand to the back of his head. “I hate you. You’ve fucked everything up, and I can’t forgive you.”

Cheek pressed hard into the dirt, Sherlock nodded. “I hate me, too, John. I’m so sorry. I hear you in my head. Everyday. You’re asking me to stay, trying to get me to come home. I was so far away, John, and I just couldn’t reach you. I’ve ruined this. I know I can’t do anything to fix it. I’m sorry!”

“Shut up! For once in your miserable fucking life, just shut your mouth!” John yanked the hem of Sherlock’s coat up and out of the way. He dropped his head and bit down on the shell of the other man’s ear, tugging hard. “I used to daydream about you coming back. About finally being able to say all the things I was too much of a coward to. What I thought I would get another chance to say.”

“Don’t, please, John, I don’t deserve it.” Sherlock arched his back up and bit down on his lips.

Taking that as the only sign he needed, John pushed the waistband down on his flannel pajama bottoms. Sherlock was already squirming out of his jeans. “Promise me you’re really here.” John spat on his fingers, rubbing them over the head of his cock. It had been straining for attention since Sherlock had placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I swear it, John. I’m real.”

John lined up and pushed. Nothing happened. “Fuck!” He licked and spat on his palm, stroking himself.

Sherlock cut off a small whimper by biting down on the back of his wrist. He shifted his knees under himself, and kept his shoulders to the ground. Looking back at John from where he was presenting, he softly asked, “Better?”

“Stay still,” John gave him a firm smack and tried again. Scowling now, he dropped down to drag his tongue over the younger man’s impossibly tight hole. Even slicked, when John tried to push inside, he slipped, and thrust up between the plush cheeks of Sherlock’s arse. “God dammit! Can’t you do _anything_  right?”

He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and spun him around. He roughly tugged off one of his shoes and threw it aside before pulling his jeans down far enough to free one leg. “If you ever leave me again, I will kill you.” He covered Sherlock, adjusting them so their cocks were nestled side by side.

Sherlock’s legs immediately went around John’s waist, tugging him close. “Yes. I deserve that.” His hand moved down to join John’s.

“I will. Ill tie you to the fucking bed, if you ever think of pulling something like this again.” He laced the fingers of their free hands together, pinning them down onto the grave. His hips were moving in long slow thrusts, his hand working in tandem with Sherlock. “If you leave me, I will follow you. Because you belong to me, do you understand? You’re mine, and I l-”

“Don’t say it!” Sherlock’s legs spasmed, and he arched up off the grass. “Please, John, just don’t.”

Nodding curtly, John wrapped an arm under his partner, and rolled them. Sherlock let out a panicked squeak before settling onto John’s hips. “Ride me,” he ordered, placing his hands on the wide swell of the detective’s hips.

“I’m not really…Like this?” Sherlock gripped the black granite of his grave marker, and gave a slow experimental roll of his hips.

“‘Kin’ hell, love, yes. Just like that. Perfect. Oh, love, you’re amazing.” John forced himself to keep his eyes open. To watch everything.

Sherlock’s head dropped down as he moved. In the silvery light from the moon, it was just possible to make out his lips. He was silently mouthing John’s name, and begging for forgiveness.

Suddenly, his eyes went wide, and he looked down at the doctor, confusion and something close to fear crossed his features. “O-okay. John, you c-c-can say it n-now.” He nodded, and picked up his pace.

Rising up onto his elbow, John moved his free hand back between them. Pumping fast, he flicked the calloused pad of his thumb in tiny circles over the dripping head of his prick. “I would have told you I loved you.” He ground out through clenched teeth. “I would have told you I was an idiot. That I’ve been in love with you since the night I killed a man to keep you safe. Fuck, Sherlock! I would have apologised for not telling you a hundred, a thousand times, that you are mine, and I love you so fucking much.”

Sherlock let go of the marker, dropping down to collide with John’s mouth. He let out a startled cry, and began pulsing over the doctor’s fist.

At the noise, John swore, and thrust up, his hips moving clear off the grass. Shouting, he shot a thick ribbon of come onto his chest and belly. A few lazy dribbles leaked out into the tight nest of curls around his cock.

“Bollocks,” John laughed as he carefully rolled Sherlock to the side. He dragged his fingers through the rapidly cooling semen, and wiped them on the grass. “I’m going to have to soak this shirt in the morning.” He flopped, boneless back onto the ground.

Sherlock glanced up from his examination of his skinned and grass stained knee. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, wiggling back into his jeans without getting up. “I should have moved it out of the way. But, um… the orgasm thing… it snuck up on me.” He cleared his throat, and John was sure, if it was daylight, he would have seen his cheeks go pink.

“‘Sokay, love. I’ll forgive you this time.” He reached over and toyed with a long curl. “Go find your shoe. We’ll go home. I’ll yell at you some more, and I’ll make you that cup of tea.”

John wanted to get back to 221b. He was done with mourning fake ghosts, and sleeping on empty graves.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is my lifeblood.


End file.
